


Lucky One

by lazarus_girl



Series: Saudade Series [8]
Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It’s the last piece in their puzzle snapping into place.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky One

**Author's Note:**

> Future Fic. Follows Gen 2 canon. Written for [15genres1prompt](http://15genres1prompt.livejournal.com). Genre: Five Times. Prompt: Lost. Inspired by the Gemma Hayes song [‘Lucky One (Bird of Cassadaga)’](http://youtu.be/0Ni9OG3Z7tw). Thank you to [@cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com/) for her beta skills and cheerleading.

**Ariadne [One Month]**

“We’re thinking about Ariadne,” Emily says, looking towards her father as he stands near the kitchen sink, waiting for the kettle to boil.

It’s odd, but they haven’t really thought about names for boys. It’s jinxing it maybe, and their mums keep saying they should have some backups, just in case, but Emily’s reply is always the same; she just knows it’ll turn out to be a girl. Naomi can’t explain how or why either, she’s just had the strongest feeling, ever since they stood in the bathroom squealing and hugging each other as they stared at the positive pregnancy test a just over month ago.

She smiles, squeezing Emily’s hand under the table. It’s still early, and any number of things could happen. They’re taking each day as it comes. It’s a miracle that Emily’s pregnant at all, given everything they’ve come up against with the donor process, and the problems with her health, which have lead to a seemingly endless battery of tests and appointments, so they’ve spent more time at Kings in the last few months than people under the age of twenty-five should.

To his credit, Rob doesn’t baulk at the idea like Cook did when they suggested it last Saturday. The only sign of shock is when a cup clatters into the sink before he replies, “Well, erm, that’s, that’s certainly different, love,” and turns to reach for the kettle when it clicks. “Got quite the ring,” he nods more confidently.

“Ariadne was the daughter of Minos king of Crete, and his queen Pasiphaë, daughter of Helios, the Sun-titan,” Naomi trips off, parrot fashion, and Rob nods away as he pours the tea, the spoon tinkling in the cups melodically. She hears Emily let out a giggle, and suddenly she realises how nerdy she sounds, glowing with embarrassment as she looks down at the tablecloth.

It reminds her of the days she used to sit in this very same kitchen when they were in Sixth Form. She’d call Rob ‘Mr Fitch’ despite his pleas for her not to do so, and she could never sit still, foot tapping nervously under the table, palms sweaty, like she was being interrogated.

Emily pecks her lightly on the cheek, “Someone’s on a Greek myths binge, Dad.”

“So I see,” he chuckles lightly, placing their mugs on the table with a flourish. It’s the same polkadot ones they’ve drunk from for years. “Biscuit or three, girls?” he says, springing up again and reaching for the tin on the work surface.

“Thanks Rob,” she says, as he pops open the tin and offers it to her.

“Finally learnt after all these years then?” he winks at her, and Emily leans against her, sipping on her tea.

She just nods, because she really shouldn’t feel this emotional about having tea and biscuits with Emily’s dad. They’ve sat like this, all of them together – Emily’s parents, Katie and her on/off boyfriend, and James – hundreds of times, but she feels like she’s been truly accepted now. It’s strange to think that it won’t be all that long until someone else is sitting at the table with them. Someone she knows who will change her and Emily’s life completely, and she’s never wanted it more. It’s the last piece in their puzzle snapping into place.

***

**Daisy [Three Months]**

“What about Daisy then?” Cook suggests, looking up from his paper, and sipping his pint with his free hand.

It’s the first time he’s suggested a name for the baby, and he said it just as flippantly as when he put forward the idea of helping them to have one in the first place, like he’d offered to take out the rubbish instead of committing to being part of their lives for the next eighteen years.

Emily glances over at her, trying to cover her shock, and failing miserably. “Daisy?”

“You know, like that bird from Gatsby,” he adds, in an attempt to clarify himself.

Naomi almost chokes on her orange juice. Cook’s never been the academic type. By his own admission, all he reads is newspapers, football programmes and takeaway menus. Still, she also knows he’s lazy rather than stupid, so it doesn’t really surprise her at all. There’s always been more to him than meets the eye.

They’re sat together in the beer garden of a pub that’s become their local, lunch in front of them. It’s nicer, a little more grown-up and a lot more salubrious than the places they used to frequent back when they were at college. It’s a Friday afternoon, still sunny in that weak, late September way, and they’re fresh from the ultrasound appointment. Cook’s visiting from Manchester, just so he could be here with them today, just like he has for every other occasion. He sits on one side of the bench, while they’re on the other, both nursing soft drinks. Emily’s is out of necessity, and hers is in sympathy. Neither of them has smoked or drunk since Emily fell pregnant, and she doesn’t really miss it, apart from the odd glass of wine when they go out to dinner, because Emily got her in the habit.

“Since when do you read F. Scott Fitzgerald?” she asks, teasingly, grinning, hoping he’ll rise to the bait.

“Since ages,” he says, with a shrug, folding his paper and smacking it down on the table. “Might not be a swot like you, Naomikins, but I know good stuff when I read it. He’s alright that bloke.”

“Yeah, he is,” she laughs.

Naomikins. There’s a name she hasn’t been called in a while. Being like this is bringing back a lot of memories, like their university years, when Cook practically lived on their sofa because he got a job as a barman at their uni. She doesn’t know when, exactly, but he’s become a fixture in their life, not in an annoying or irritating way – even though he still _can_ be, despite the fact he’s definitely sorted himself out. He’s become important, in a way she’d never really imagined he might; been there for them, proved himself as a really good friend. That’s why they had no hesitation about his offer to help. She grew up without having a father until Kieran came along, and Cook only had a father when it suited him. Though he’s made it clear that they’re very much the parents in this arrangement, he’s also keen to be part of the baby’s life.

She and Emily quickly realised that having someone who knows them both well is definitely preferable to some stranger they’ve picked out of a book. The whole IVF process felt daunting and clinical, the furthest removed from romance and love, so they went their own way instead with Cook’s help. People fall pregnant every day without having to jump through the hoops they were faced with. At first, Emily’s mum wasn’t exactly thrilled at who they’d chosen – she went a very particular shade of green – and Kieran had his own concerns, but eventually, everyone came around, because he really has proven himself.

“I like it,” Emily says, with a smile, and Cook grins back toothily. “What do you think, babe?” she continues, turning to her.

“Me too. She looks like a Daisy,” she replies, touching the scan picture that sits in the middle of the table.

The baby’s becoming a real person in their minds, in their lives now. Less an abstract thing they’ve been working towards, like thinking up wishes upon blowing out birhday candles, and more something who will actually blow out their own candles and make their own wishes soon enough. It’s completely bizarre.

“Course she does!” he crows, proud. “It’s a proper nice little girl name as well,” he continues with a firm nod. “Be pretty and all that, wouldn’t it? Gonna be a little stunner with your genes and mine, girls!”

“Modest as ever, Cookie!” Emily says, throwing a chip at him.

“Always, kid,” he replies, winking at them both.

“And here’s me thinking we chose him for his sparkling wit and intellect, Ems?” she grins, and Cook pretends to look offended, and throws one of his chips back at her.

Suddenly he looks very young. They _are_ young, Emily’s only just twenty-two, but it feels right. They’ve always done things at accelerated speed, her and Emily. When she considers that she’s loved Emily for almost half her life, the way things are progressing seems positively languorous. Ever since the scan image came on the screen, the whole thing feels a lot more real. There’s an actual person growing inside of Emily who they’re going to love and care for every day. It’s exciting and terrifying all at once, but she’s never felt prouder of what they have together and the future they’re building.

***

**Skye [Five Months]**

They’re in the middle of decorating the nursery sorbet pink now they know for sure – as sure as they can be until the birth – that the baby will be a girl. Naomi’s at the top of a ladder, painting the ceiling, with her mum standing at the bottom holding it steady and bossing her about as per usual. Emily starts throwing out random names again as she flicks through a Mothercare catalogue, marking out her favourite things with Post-Its. She’ll have bought half the shop by the time she’s finished, but Naomi doesn’t much care, it makes Emily feel better when the morning sickness is still getting to her.

The baby isn’t even here and she’s already being spoilt. Jenna’s been knitting solidly for months. They have enough stuff to clothe a small army, and sometimes Naomi feels a bit guilty, since there’s still a part of her that’s not too comfortable with mass consumerism, but if you can’t spoil your first child, who can you spoil?

“What about Skye?” she asks, beaming up at Naomi.

“Oh dear,” Gina comments, looking like she’s just come out with the worst idea ever.

From her position on the ladder, Naomi glowers, and replies with a simple, curt, “No.”

Emily’s brows furrow, confused. “Why not? It’s pretty. So is the place.”

That’s been the running theme. Pretty. Everyone seems to think she’s going to be this lovely gorgeous little girlie girl, so they keep finding equally lovely names for her, and usually, Naomi would agree with her, but she doesn’t associate Skye with pretty. She associates it with tents and rain, crazy hippies, and a huge period of her life she wants to erase all pictorial evidence of.

“Long story, love,” Gina interjects, flashing her a grin.

Emily glances up at Naomi again and tries not to smile, “Do tell, Gina.”

“You dare! I’ll throw this bloody paint over your head!” Naomi threatens. “Don’t think I won’t!”

Gina sniggers. “An empty threat my sweetheart! The emptiest!”

“Oh, go on, tell me,” Emily says, in her sweetest singsong voice, batting her lashes in Naomi’s direction.

“Do, darling. It’ll sound so much better coming from you!”

“Fine!” Naomi sighs dramatically, climbing down the ladder and shoving the paint pot square at her mother. “Just so you know,” she pauses to lean down and talk to the baby bump, “your Grandma Gina –”

Gina cuts her off, “Nana Gina, thank you.”

“Sorry. _Nana_ Gina is an emotional blackmailer, and so is your mother!”

“I am not!” Emily protests.

“So says the girl who could win a gold medal in pouting.”

Gina touches Emily’s shoulder, “Sorry sweetheart, she’s got you there.”

“And you could win a gold medal in diversionary tactics! Tell me the story.”

“Alright! Jesus!” Naomi holds up her hands. “We used to live there,” she pauses, swallowing hard, “in a commune, with about forty other people, when I was a baby. Someone,” she jabs a finger in Gina’s direction, “thought it’d be a good name for me. So, until I was three years old, and we left for Bristol, that _was_ my name.”

“Aww!” Emily coos, rubbing her belly unconsciously. “See, perfect.”

“No, babe. It’s not. Because you haven’t heard the worst of it,” she sighs again, glowing red with embarrassment. “Skye is a nice name, but not when it’s paired with Honeychild, and you spent most of the time naked because your _mother_ thinks that wearing clothes is tyrannical.”

Emily tries not to laugh, because Naomi’s being so dramatic it’s ridiculous, a throwback to her moody – but still somehow charming – teenage self. The way the last part of the sentence trips off her tongue speaks of a story being told and retold to her hundreds of times by Gina’s circle of friends, relishing her embarrassment.

“Oh …” Emily replies, not really sure what to think, because it’s still a nice name, and what she’s seen of Naomi from those years, from the times Gina’s snuck her photos, Naomi was an adorable little girl, running around in dresses with plaits in her hair, a true free spirit. Exactly the kind of girl she would’ve loved as a playmate.

“Yes. Oh.”

“Come on, I was barely eighteen! It was what everyone did then, and you have the loveliest blue eyes. On the day you were born there wasn’t a cloud to be seen,” Gina grows wistful, voice wavering.

“Mum!” Naomi yells, attempting to shut this down and move the focus back to the baby.

“Naoms,” Emily says, softly, taking Naomi’s hand in hers.

“Anyway, consider yourself lucky you aren’t called Zefyr or Azure! You got off lightly!” she chuckles to herself, “It was a great time, idyllic. Don’t be so bloody miserable!” Gina admonishes, reaching across and shoving her, lightly.

“I don’t know why you aren’t angrier about having the same name as a supermodel,” Emily jokes, ducking close to Gina when Naomi’s head whips round, eyes narrowed.

Gina laughs. “She has a point, darling,”

“I am,” Naomi sulks. “I just hide it well.”

Emily nods knowingly. “Of course you do,” she pulls her close, kissing her cheek.

“Stop ganging up on me, the pair of you, it’s not going to work!”

“We’re not!” Emily and Gina reply, in near unison, bursting into laughter.

“You planned this, didn’t you?!” Naomi’s eyes go wide, sufficiently freaked out. “We’re _not_ calling her Skye, or naming her after any fucking supermodels either!” she adds, glancing at her mum.

Gina ignores her, preferring to goad her instead, “Agyness Campbell has quite a nice ring, don’t you think?”

Emily mouths a ‘stop it’ at her, but Gina’s still revelling in it too much. There’s a mischievous glint in her eye that hasn’t gone away yet.

“She’s going to have an ordinary, lovely name. Right?” Naomi affirms, so vehemently it sounds like a threat.

“Yes,” Emily says, earnestly, kissing Naomi’s forehead. “She will.”

“Come here you silly girl!” Gina relents at last, beckoning Naomi across to her and pulling her a hug, ignoring Naomi’s sighs of protest.

She resists briefly, but then gives into it, laughing at it all finally, and Emily feels herself well up. They’ve always had a strange relationship because Naomi fought so doggedly against the similarities between them for so long, but if their daughter turns anything like Naomi has, then she’ll be one of the most intelligent, articulate, and passionate people she’s ever known, and she can’t wait to see it all unfold.

***

**Charlotte [Seven Months]**

Naomi should get some sort of super girlfriend-slash-almost-wife award really, for going out in the dead of night, and the pouring rain no less, just to get her a McDonalds. She’s never been more thankful that they ended up living in King’s Cross, because she’s developed ridiculously strong cravings for McNuggets, fries and strawberry milkshake ever since she got through her first trimester. Truth be told, Naomi’s a bit of a pushover, and all it look was a bit of pouting and a few well placed lingering kisses to get her up, dressed and out the door without a word of protest, just when she thought she couldn’t love her more than she already does.

Naomi’s been her rock through all of this: brought her water when she’s felt sick, rubbed her back when it’s hurt, patiently kissed and soothed away her every worry with careful, loving words. Her mum still worries whether they were mature enough to handle all this – sometimes she wonders too because having a tiny person who’s entirely dependent on you for everything is mind-blowing – but then she remembers she’s got Naomi, her rock, her everything, and it doesn’t seem so daunting anymore. She’d be lost without her.

She checks her phone for the time and any messages, smiling at the latest picture from Cook holding up a very small England shirt, grinning like an idiot, tagged with the caption ‘Let’s start as we mean to go on, eh?’ It quells her nerves for a moment, but Naomi’s still been gone longer than usual. It’s silly to panic, it’s bad to panic, and the doctor keeps telling her to keep her stress levels down if she’s going to be able to carry the baby to term. Deep down, she knows she’s being ridiculous, but she’s also got a vivid imagination that’s running away with her, envisaging Naomi in some pile up or dead in a ditch somewhere; leaving her a single mother overnight with no idea of to cope … until she hears Naomi’s telltale swearing, the musical jangle of keys, and then, the door unlocking. She breathes the biggest sigh of relief known to man, touching her stomach unconsciously to comfort herself and the baby at once.

“I come bearing gifts, my darling!” she announces, as the door closes with an almighty slam.

Triumphant, she holds up the McDonalds bag every inch the hunter gatherer. Her smile fades when she sets eyes on Emily, pale on the sofa, trying to look casual and failing miserably.

“You’re OK!” she says, a little too loudly, face painted with a fake smile.

Well, she’s kind of OK. She looks like a drowned rat, and she’s currently dripping water all over their new, very expensive wood flooring.

“I told you to stay in bed, keep warm, it’s freezing! Put the bloody heating on!” Naomi hurries across the room, in shrugging off her coat, and reaching for the box in the corner, firing it up. Even though Emily doesn’t ask, Naomi wraps a blanket around her, and kisses her atop the head. “There. Better?”

“Much,” she replies gazing up at Naomi. “Thank you going on the mercy dash.”

Naomi cups Emily’s cheek, and kisses her again lightly on the lips for good measure. “Anything for you,” she replies, softly.

“You took ages …” Emily tails off, saying the rest of her sentence to the coffee table. “I was worried, I thought something happened.”

“Oh babe,” Naomi sighs, sitting down next to her, dropping the bag of food on the table and pulling her close. “I should’ve texted or phoned. Some greedy fucker in front of me ordered half the menu. I had to wait ages, sorry for scaring you.”

“It’s OK, I was just being stupid,” she shrugs, deflecting.

“No you weren’t. You just worry too much, Ems.” Naomi’s voice grows soft, full of concern, and there’s a hand on her back, rubbing gently, “Remember what Doctor Collins told us.”

“I know,” she nods. “I know.”

Shaking the mood off, she opens the bag, setting the food out on the table like a surgeon.

She hears Naomi stifle a giggle and murmur, “Sweet.”

“Jesus, babe, how many of us are you feeding?”

“I got a bit peckish standing in the queue.”

“A bit?” Emily laughs, and Naomi’s glad to see that light back in her eyes. That look alone is worth the rain and the cold, and miserable, rude McDonalds cashiers.

Maybe she did go a _little_ bit overboard. There’s enough here to fulfil her cravings twice over and some more. They sit together, huddled up, one arm around each other, sharing their food, and it’s nice, even though she’s ridiculously tired and it’s barely three hours until she has to get up for work.

“Why is this so good?” Emily groans with satisfaction, popping another fry into her mouth. “I’m going to be sick of the sight of this once she’s born!” she continues, slurping on her milkshake.

“Pregnancy hormones, babe,” she chuckles. “Oh, while I was waiting, I thought of some more names, since if we don’t pick something soon, everyone’s going to have a heart attack and we’ll be forever cursed.”

“Please don’t say McNugget,” Emily says, with a laugh.

"I make all my decisions in the McDonald’s queue, I’ll have you know."

As baby naming stories go, ‘We thought of it in the queue at McDonalds’ is either genius or tragic. It beats the well-thumbed book on their kitchen counter anyway. Perhaps they’ll embellish it a little, Naomi thinks; scour the internet for a literary reference or find a match on some distant branch on their family tree.

“Are you psychic?!” Naomi snorts. “No, not McNugget, sadly. What do you think of Charlotte?”

She shakes her head. “Oh my God, no!”

It comes out in a very Katie-like almost screech of disgust.

“Whoa, OK!” Naomi flinches, holding up her hands. “Not _quite_ the reaction I was expecting.”

“You don’t remember, do you?” she asks, putting down her food and turning to Naomi. “ _Charlotte_ ,” she repeats the name, adding weight.

Naomi looks at her like she’s gone nuts. “Who?”

“How can you not? Fucking hell! Charlotte Matthews. _The_ Charlotte Matthews from school.”

Suddenly, something clicks in Naomi’s mind. “Oh fuck! That evil bitch from Year 10 who went out with Chris Stephens and got knocked up?”

“Yes, _that_ evil bitch from Year 10,” Emily nods. “Made my life a misery.”

“Shit, babe, I totally forgot about her! Fuck that then! No daughter of mine is being named after that poisonous little witch!”

Emily makes a sudden squeak of surprise, grabbing Naomi’s hand, placing it against her stomach. The baby’s kicking. It’s not the first time, but it’s still strange, and exciting and wonderful; reminding them both that she’s actually there, growing inside her.

“See, she doesn’t like the name either!” Emily laughs, “Back to the drawing board then!”

“Whatever she’s called, she’s going to be perfect, because she’s ours.”

She sighs, pulling Naomi close, trying not to cry, because says the most beautiful, romantic things to her sometimes, and it’d set her off even before she had all these surging pregnancy hormones turning her into a blubbing mess at the drop of a hat. For someone who’s meant to be all tough and independent, Naomi’s just a big sentimental softie, who loves nothing more than taking care of her and trying to protect her from everything she thinks is wrong in the world. Soon, someone else will get that protection too.

***

**Georgia [Nine Months]**

“Alone at last,” she says with a smile, leaning against the door to close it.

Emily glances up, tearing herself away from the baby in her arms, “Just the three of us.”

At those five softly-spoken words, Naomi feels herself well up. She’s imagined this moment a lot, but the reality of it doesn’t remotely match what she anticipated; it’s infinitely better. The world’s going on like nothing’s happened, ticking along as normal – outside there’s traffic and sirens; beyond this room, there’s trolleys rushing past and machines bleeping away – but everything’s changed, irrevocably, and she feels like there should be some other sign to show for it, writ large in the sky, instead of texts and pictures zipping back and forth between their family and friends. Everyone feels like this, of course, everyone thinks their newborn child is the greatest human being in existence, but for them, this little one means so much more. They’ve been through so much together, and through so much to have her, that it sort of feels like a miracle and their lives will never quite be the same.

It’s the first chance they’ve had to be together all day thanks to the neverending stream of visitors. She’s never been hugged and kissed so much in her life, and she’s never felt so loved either, hours lost in a blur of ‘beautiful’ and ‘lovely,’ cameras going off and questions about Emily and the baby being fired left and right. They were all ridiculously happy, beaming with pride and showering them with cards, gifts and advice, with offers to help once they get her home.

First Emily’s parents came with James in tow, loaded up with bags. Rob was every inch the gushing grandfather, beaming with pride. Jenna too, was in full-on nana mode, full of warmth and praise, fussing over them both and the baby. There was none of the awkwardness or thinly-veiled hatred that defined their relationship previously. The hug they shared felt like an apology and a new beginning all at once. The biggest surprise of the day has to go to James, full of awe – and some tears – instead of ridiculous and inappropriate comments when he looked at the baby for the first time.

They had about ten minutes of breathing space before her mum and Kieran burst in, flustered from their train journey. Her mum took the smothering route, lavishing them all with kisses and ridiculously embarrassing birth anecdotes that made Emily laugh and almost burst her stitches. Of everything she’s seen today, Kieran’s reaction might stick most vividly. It was equal parts touching and hilarious to watch Kieran, this big gruff Irishman, brought to tears by someone much smaller than himself. Stranger too, that he’s practically witnessed every stage of their relationship.

Finally, in flurry of ‘sorries’ and ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ came Katie and Cook. Breathless from running across the car park, Katie carried with her a pink helium ‘baby girl’ balloon, and Cook a huge teddy under his arm that currently occupies its own seat cross from the baby’s cot. Its currently serving as guardian of all the gifts they’ve received – blankets, toys, and tiny, tiny clothes she can’t imagine anyone fitting inside. It was bittersweet, of course, seeing Katie hold her niece for the first time, talking to her softly, because they all know what it would mean for her to be a mum herself. Seeing her so at ease hit them and struck them both hard. It’s even stranger to recall how small the baby looked in Cook’s arms. Rendered speechless, he was petrified of dropping her or hurting her somehow, looking relieved when he handed her back to Emily and he could admire her from a safer distance.

Even so, he’ll still be the best godfather anyone can ask for, and Katie the best godmother. It wasn’t in the plan to tell them today, but all it took was one look from Emily, and she found herself sitting hand-in-hand with Emily across from Katie and Cook, watching their reaction and nodding along as Emily said it. She’s only seen Cook cry a few times since she’s known him, and for once, they were happy tears.

She crosses the room, taking in the sight of Emily holding their daughter – even saying that in her mind sounds strange – watching as her hand grips tight around Emily’s finger. She refuses to let herself blink, just so she can take it in fully and store it away. Until today, she thought she was completely prepared for how she’d feel once the baby was born. They’ve had over nine months to get ready – forty weeks, over two hundred and seventy days, six thousand five hundred and something hours – but, right now, with her tiny daughter swaddled in a pastel pink hospital blanket, it feels like ten seconds has elapsed since she sat in the bathroom with Emily and watched the pregnancy test turn positive.

All she remembers is sheer and utter panic as she gripped Emily’s hand tight in the operating theatre, dressed in blue scrubs that didn’t fit. She prayed to every God she knew the name of and more that Emily and the baby both would be fine and that she wouldn’t lose them. All she could think was that this wasn’t how things were meant to be.

Emily had woken her at some ungodly hour, calmly saying that she thought her waters had broken. Everything after that, from the ambulance journey, sirens wailing and lights flashing, to the theatre itself is a blur of contractions, doctors, nurses, examinations and medication. The birth plan is still on the kitchen table. They still don’t have a name for her, and it’s bad luck. They had everything ready, bag packed in the corner of their bedroom for weeks, but everything in her body screamed she wasn’t ready for this … Until she heard her daughter let out her very first cry.

Now, she’s completely overwhelmed; delirious, terrified and every possible emotion in between. They _are_ fine, they’re more than fine, and she can’t see the tiny bundle in her arms through her tears.

Emily puts a hand on her shoulder, “Babe, are you alright?”

“I think,” she sniffs, “I should be asking you that, shouldn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Emily chuckles, and then flinches from the pull of her stitches.

She honestly never thought she could feel as much love for anyone as she does for Emily, but the second she saw her, that changed. If anything, she feels more love after what she’s witnessed. In her arms is a perfect little extension of the love they share, and that’s a ridiculously saccharine and twee thought to be having – it belongs in a Hallmark card shop – but today she’s got dispensation. She pulls the chair as close to Emily’s bed as she can physically get it, because the brusque midwife that comes in to check Emily’s blood pressure has already told her off twice for sitting on the bed.

“I can’t believe she’s actually real…” Emily says, looking between her and the baby adoringly. Her voice breaks, exhausted and heavy with emotion. “You want to hold her? I’ve been hogging her for ages.”

She nods nervously, because she’s briefly held babies before, but this one is her own and it’s entirely different. “You’re perfect,” she exclaims, awed, touching her daughter’s tiny nose – it’s just like Emily’s – seeing blue eyes briefly open. She hears Emily let out a little gasp.

“I’m so proud of you, darlin’ … of us,” Naomi declares, not wanting to tear her eyes away from the baby.

“I love you. So much.” Emily replies, hushed.

She turns to her fully, looking her in the eyes, “I love you more,” she swallows hard, feeling her voice falter. “You gave me everything I ever wanted.”

Then, Emily leans over, tilting her head, and their lips brush in the barest of kisses. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. A strange sort of peace descends then, and she feels calm for the first time in what feels like a long time. Every day of Emily’s pregnancy has been a worry of some kind, but supporting her through the labour is the single most terrifying thing she’s ever endured. She still can’t get her head around how Emily managed so incredibly strong and brave, pushing through her pain and tiredness until she had nothing left to give, and they wheeled her into theatre for the caesarean. It was a relief, because she couldn’t stand seeing her upset and in so much pain any longer, even if the result of both is just about the most beautiful little thing she’s ever seen.

“What are we going to call our gorgeous girl?” Emily asks, and she suddenly remembers that the cot says, ‘baby Fitch.’

She looks down at her again, running through the long list of names they’ve gathered over the months, and suddenly it comes to her: Georgia. They should call her Georgia. The second she tests it out, forming the name silently before she speaks it out loud. It feels right.

“Georgia.”

Emily gasps. “Naomi! Why didn’t you think of that months ago?”

“I don’t know!” she smiles. “It just came into my head.”

“It’s lovely. I love it!”

She smiles again. Her jaw’s starting to ache from it doing it so many times. “I think it suits her. Hello Georgia,” she adds, softly, watching to see if the baby reacts, but she’s sleeping peacefully.

“Georgia,” Emily repeats, testing it out. “Georgia May. For our grandmothers? What do you think?”

“I think,” she stands up slowly, walking over to Georgia’s cot, laying her down carefully before pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, “That it’s a perfect name, but, I’d really like if that name had Campbell at the end too.”

She waits for a moment before she turns back, hearing Emily’s breath hitch, and a sob escape. Truth be told, she’s carried around the idea of marrying Emily for years, since college and Goa, looked at God knows how many rings in jewellery shops, but it’s never felt like the right time, until now. They’ve gone about everything the wrong way, of course, baby first and wedding later, but it doesn’t really matter.

Emily’s jaw drops, and her eyes go wide, “Naomi, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Yes, Emily Jane Fitch, I am,” she replies, chewing nervously on her lip as she approaches, twisting the thin gold band she always wears back and forth, as she adds “If, you want to that is?” heart hammering hard in her chest.

“If I want to? What?” Emily’s voice goes up higher than she’s ever heard, and whatever she was thinking of saying next leaves her mind completely when Emily grabs her, answering in a flurry of kisses.

She breaks away momentarily, and works the ring off her finger, watching Emily intently as she places it on Emily’s instead.

“This is your nan’s ring …” Emily breathes, only just able to speak.

“Yeah, and now it’s yours,” she replies, voice wavering, looking at Emily through her tears, pulling her into a tight hug.

“And you’re,” she pauses, smile spreading across her features, as if realising something, “Mine.”

She’s always thought of happiness as being a transient feeling, but right now, with Emily and Georgia in this hospital room, it’s not like that at all; it’s solid and everlasting. As real to her as the girl she’s holding.

Emily kisses her again, slow and careful. She finally feels part of something; like she belongs to a real family for the first time in her life. That life is something her lonely, shy twelve-year-old self couldn’t have conjured up in her wildest dreams. Emily’s given her this precious, amazing gift, and she can’t fathom how she got so extraordinarily lucky.


End file.
